


The Reichenbach Rise

by merc_cook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cliffhangers, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:08:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25486006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merc_cook/pseuds/merc_cook
Summary: I know that I will not be the first to put forward a solution to Sherlock’s supposed death at the end of The Reichenbach Fall. However, for me, the cliffhanger was never successfully resolved on screen and I have therefore decided to put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard) and record the explanation I theorised at the time of how Sherlock might have survived the ostensibly fatal fall from the top of St Bart’s Hospital.The story picks up from Sherlock’s phone call to John Watson who is hurrying to his friend’s aid.
Kudos: 4





	The Reichenbach Rise

“Please,” Sherlock said, the tone of his voice rising ever so slightly, “Will you do this for me?” His friend was bemused.  
“Do what?” he asked.  
“This phone call,” Sherlock went on, “it’s, er” he hesitated, unsure if he could say the next part, “It’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.” He saw his friend shake his head and the hand clutching the phone moved away from his head. Sherlock was relieved that he understood. He saw Watson bring the phone back up to his ear.  
“Leave a note when?” Watson said, in a quivering voice. Sherlock chose to ignore this.  
“Goodbye, John.” His friend was shaking his head as he pleaded with him.  
“No.” he said, “Don’t.” Sherlock glanced down at him before lowering his arm and letting the phone fall onto the roof. He gazed ahead, breathing as slowly and as calmly as he could. He spread his arms out either side of him. “No. SHERLOCK!” He let his body tip forwards and felt the roof slip from beneath his feet as he fell down and down; the ground rushing eagerly up to meet him.

Landing with a slight bounce, Sherlock was dazed but quickly regained himself  
He hurried to slide off the edge of the crash mat that had recently replaced the section of pavement for which he would have otherwise been heading; noting bitterly as he did so that it was slightly harder than he had expected – no doubt Mycroft not being able to completely relinquish years of sibling rivalry. 

The entire operation had been conducted in the utmost secrecy under the guise of roadworks. The whole area being screened off to allow the designated workmen to excavate a sizeable section of the pavement outside the front of St Bart’s Hospital. The (unnecessarily) hard crash mat had then been installed at a sufficient level that would enable it to be concealed by a surface layer. As Sherlock pulled himself to his feet, he saw the men waiting with this layer - carefully camouflaged to resemble the surrounding concrete which, once he was out of the way, they slid into position and let it fall so that it merged inconspicuously with the slabs around it.

On the other side of the truck - a leftover from the carefully orchestrated preparations - which had been strategically placed to obscure Watson’s view of Sherlock’s landing, John had watched in horror as Sherlock fell the innumerable storeys through the air to his inevitable death below. After a moment’s stunned hesitation, he made to dash across the road in a desperate attempt to get to his friend.  
On cue, the cyclist that had been waiting around the opposite corner sped out from his hiding place catching Watson a glancing blow as he passed him – not hard but enough to knock him off his feet. Watson’s head hit the ground; leaving him dazed and confused. It took him a few seconds to recover himself before he again set off towards the hospital. But this delay had proven vital. 

The ‘pavement’ now back in place, Sherlock lay down in his previous position. One of the men injected a syringe into his arm while another dripped blood against the back of his head – enough to allow it to run in worrying rivulets along the ground – and then waited as Sherlock’s chemically-altered heart rate began to slow. The men - or medics as they now appeared to those gathered around them - who had seemingly miraculously materialised almost in the same instant as Sherlock had reached the ground began ‘tending’ to their patient. In the distance he could just make out his friend’s voice,  
“I’m a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please.” He felt a moment of relief that they had timed it right. And then everything went black.

As instructed, the crowd assembled around Sherlock’s supine form did their best to obstruct Watson’s desperate attempt to reach him. They knew it was important not to allow the doctor too much time to examine the ‘body’.  
“No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please.” The gathered onlookers were signalled and Watson was allowed to burst through to witness his friend lying seemingly lifeless on the ground in front of him. He reached out to feel in vain for a pulse and felt fingers trying to prise his away from Sherlock’s wrist. “Please, let me just ...” Another team of medics arrived to join the ones who had appeared immediately after Sherlock’s fall, bringing with them a wheeled stretcher. Watson felt his knees give way as they rolled Sherlock on to his back to reveal his bloodstained face and wide, staring eyes. John let out a cry of disgust and despair, “Jesus, no!” He tried to stand but his legs wouldn’t take his weight, “God, no!” He watched, supported by the onlookers, as Sherlock’s body was loaded onto the stretcher and whisked away leaving a dazed and overwhelmed Watson to gaze after it forlornly; an unwitting yet crucial witness to the ‘demise’.

Once in the assigned treatment room, an antidote to the previously administered drug was given and as Sherlock’s vital signs gradually began to return to normal he let out a breath that sounded like a sigh of relief. He turned his head to the right and winked at the friendly face who stood over him. Molly Hooper smiled coquettishly back.

In his comfortable den of safety of the Diogenes Club, Mycroft looked down upon a hastily prepared newspaper article announcing the tragic death of the ‘fraudulent’ detective, Sherlock Holmes. He let it fall down on the table beside him and then rested his chin upon his fingertips; contemplating the situation. So far, so good – it seemed the ruse had worked and all their careful planning had paid off. The continued survival of John Watson, Mrs Hudson and Inspector Lestrade would prove this.  
He had been surprised to receive the call from his brother but then there were some things even the great Sherlock Holmes was not capable of pulling off by himself. And when it came to his newly-acquired friends – a concept Mycroft had previously thought his younger sibling incapable of conceiving – it seemed even debasing himself to asking for help from his brother was not beyond the realms of possibility.  
It had been a risky strategy but – as both Holmes boys had agreed – inevitable given the predilections of this particular inconvenience – namely James Moriarty – to ensuring Sherlock’s downfall. They had plotted and schemed silently together – only bringing others in on their plans when absolutely necessary. Molly Hooper had been only too happy to facilitate the recruitment of St Bart’s resources to their cause – ensuring the paramedic uniforms and supplies were readily available and allocating a room in her mortuary to which they could remove the ‘body’. His own men, of course, would not breathe a word – state secrecy being their stock in trade.  
Once Moriarty agreed to Sherlock’s suggested meeting place of St Bart’s Hospital they knew their success was assured – anywhere else would have been disastrous as it would have been impossible to implement their scheme in another location and at such impossibly short notice.  
There was a knock at the door and one of the club valets entered.  
“A Mr Sherlock Holmes, sir.” Mycroft nodded and the visitor was allowed to enter. Mycroft stood to greet his brother as he walked towards him and the two of them shook hands – each seemingly unsure of the uneasy truce that appeared to exist between them. Finally Mycroft said,  
“I’m waiting.” There was a pause. Then,  
“Thank you.” Sherlock replied.  
“My pleasure.” Mycroft said, “Brother mine.”

***

The funeral was a pleasant enough affair. Sherlock watched from his reconnoitred spot in the churchyard as the attendees filed out and made their way towards his grave. He saw Watson briefly converse with Mrs Hudson before she left him to contemplate what lay before him.  
He watched as his friend muttered a few words to the inanimate slab of rock that marked the burial place of an empty coffin. Saw him turn away then turn back and continue his conversation before bowing his head and his shoulders shaking in heartfelt sobs. He was truly touched that his death mattered to John that much. After a few moments his friend rallied, pulled himself smartly to attention, nodded a salute, turned and walked away. Sherlock watched him go with a sympathetic look on his face.  
‘One day, my friend.’ He thought, ‘One day you’ll know – I did it for you all.’ Then, slowly, he himself turned and headed away in the opposite direction.

**Author's Note:**

> *SPOILER ALERT*  
> I cannot claim solely credit for this solution – the devices involved were actually originally used as the solution to the 2-parter Jonathan Creek episode ‘The Problem At Gallows Gate’ written by David Renwick – which featured a similarly presumed fatal fall from a tall building only for the ‘victim’ to miraculously turn up alive and well later on in the 2nd episode.


End file.
